Frozen Blood
by Tilithia
Summary: Kiltar has everything a warlord wants...a personal island, plunder, slaves, and a blindly obedient horde. What more can he want? Something that can only be bought in blood....PG13 just to be safe. (gore)


In the depth of an eternal winter, lived Kiltar. In the howling winds, the blizzards, the frostbite, and the snowstorms, lived Kiltar. In blood, hate, cruelty, and murder, lived Kiltar.

Kiltar was a handsome beast—a dashing white stoat with icy blue eyes and a daring smile. His claws were sharp and honed to a deadly point, and he never ceased to carry around a long curved scimitar, both plain and light. He headed a horde of over five thousand creatures, all as evil and cruel as he was. And in the frozen island of Vertaga, they lived.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"Come in, you pitiful monster," called Kiltar lazily, sipping a goblet filled with a rich dark wine. "And if you must disturb me, do it boldly. None of this light tapping on my door…it annoys me, you know."

A scrawny rat opened the door, bowing in meekly. "Sorry to bother you, Sire!" he squeaked. "But I have come to tell you the booty ships have returned at last. The _Helldeath, Bloodcore, Scurgore, and Bladewrath_ have all arrived safe and sound."

"Only four…?" mused Kiltar. "I have reason to believe I sent out five ships nearly a season ago. What happened to the _SailingDeath?_" he spat suddenly, sinking his claws onto the rat's nose in a vicelike grip. "Tell me, you fool!"

The rat named Yertil, cowered, shaking from nose to tail. "Pleathe Sire, I don't d'know. Pleathe, pleathe, you're hurding my node, Sire!"

Kiltar sunk his claws in deeper and flung the rat away spitefully as the rat burst into a fit a howling. "Shut up, wretch, and get out of my sight, or else you won't have a nose!"

He watched the rat zoom off with a slight smirk on his face. The, with a sigh, he went off to see to the captains of his ships. There would be some explaining to do.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Deathlore, Smiteclaw, Grebbin, and Crescent were the captains of the four surviving ships, and they were all conferring hurriedly as they waited for Kiltar to arrive.

"Oh, blast, he'll be furious!" moaned Smiteclaw. "When he finds out little scruffy mice sunk one of his ships!"

"We can't tell him the truth, nitwit!" snarled Crescent, a stunning beautiful vixen. Baring her teeth, she muttered, "We'll tell him the _Sailingdeath_ got lost, eh? That way, he can't blame us for not keeping up with it…after all, we don't have to look out for one another, do we?"

"I agree not telling the truth," said Deathlore, a handsome fox with several tattoos and ear piercing. "But do you really think Kiltar will believe us? They say he always knows…"

"Oh, yeah, but if we tell the truth, it'll either be death or demotion for us!" spat Crescent bitterly. "I'd rather lie."

"Well, if you feel so confident," snapped Grebbin, a mangy ferret, "then you can break the news to our Might Master. Perhaps he'll go easy on you because you look so innocent."

"Looks can be deceiving, Grebbin," said Crescent dangerously. "Would you try me on for size? I could have you on the ground in no time!"

Smiteclaw scowled. "The Boss'll be here any moment, and we have to make our story likely. So we say the _Sailingdeath _got lost, eh? Then what?"

"Then what?" snapped Deathlore. "What else can we say?"

"Oh, Hellsteeth, here he comes, the Devil himself," moaned Grebbin.

The four straightened up, looking outwardly confidant, but quaking on the inside like pups caught stealing honey from the kitchens.

"My loyal captains," hailed Kiltar, strolling out into the frigid grounds with an equally frigid smile on his face. "You have returned! And in good time too! How fortunate of me to have such hardworking, loyal captains!"

The four relaxed, seeing Kiltar in a good mood. In a sudden jerky movement, he seized Crescent by the throat and heaved her toward him dangerously.

"But where is poor Weertooth and his ship, the _Sailingdeath_?" he whispered to Crescent, almost in a flirtatious manner. "Come now, a pretty little vixen such as yourself should be smart enough to figure that one out."

Crescent's bright green eyes were wide in fear as she struggled to catch her breath. "S-sir, Weertooth g-got lost! He sh-should be returning, soon…I swear, I don't know any more, M'Lord!" she begged, her usually suave attitude completely gone.

"Lost, M'dear? And how do you know this?" he purred, tightening his grip around her throat.

"I—We—I—,' floundered the poor vixen. "Sire, please, I don't know! He just d-didn't sail home with us! That's all I know!"

Kiltar flung Crescent away, where she lay, gasping for air. "Useless vixen, I can see that Weertooth didn't arrive with you four!"

Spinning around, he gazed at the other three. "What about you three? Can you make up a better story than Crescent? I daresay, it shouldn't be too hard…"

Whipping out his scimitar, he tickled Grebbin's chin. "So, ferret laddie, what's your version? Did poor Weertooth drown? Or did a bunch of flying foxes devour him? Or, let me guess, did he think he turn into a bird and fly away? Answer me, you lying buffoon!"

Grebbin broke down completely. "Weertooth was murdered, sire, an' his ship sunk! Oh, blood-n-fur, it was horrible! A load of scruffy mice on little boats chased him down because he killed their leader. They were nearly coming to attack us, but we left that land in a quick hurry, and got away! Weertooth's whole crew was left, and they were all murdered, Sire! Please, we couldn't do nothing about it! There was so many, and this great, big nasty badger was a-helping them too! It was like a nightmare!" howled the ferret, his throat bobbing in fear. "Please, we couldn't do nothing! We were outnumbered, three to one! We tried, but we would have all been killed."

Kiltar dropped his blade and stashed it back on his belt deftly. His eyes lingered from one captain to another, all of whom didn't dare meet his eyes.

"You speak the truth," said Kiltar softly. "Grebbin, come with me. As for you three," he turned around to look at Deathlore, Crescent, and Smiteclaw, all of whom were shaking and quivering, "I shall be merciful. If the plunder you brought with you satisfies me, when I get a chance to look over it, then you shall remain the captains of your ships. If, however, you didn't bring back satisfactory booty, then you shall be executed. How does that sound, my stupid, blundering fools?"

"You are merciful, Sire!" said Smiteclaw hurriedly, bobbing his head. "Oh, thank you Sire! We won't let you down again! You are the merciful one, Sire!"

With that, the three practically zoomed away, still sweating and shaking with fear. Grebbin swallowed heavily and turned his eyes to meet Kiltar's.

"What do you want to know, Sire…?"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Deathlore, Crescent, and Smiteclaw were all panting heavily as they beat their humbling retreat. They met again at the brewery, where they all agreed that a mug of ale or two would calm their nerves.

"Nice to have yer back," hailed the owner of the brewery, a large and heavily tattooed stoat. "How about one on the House for all of yew?"

"That's my mate," agreed Smiteclaw, clapping his friend on the back. "You should give lil' Crescent two…the Boss nearly scared the wits outta her," he chuckled, casting a glance at his friend, who glared back defiantly.

"Anyone would have been scared!" protested Crescent, rubbing her bruised throat. "Kiltar's not a beast to be reckoned with…we got lucky, if you ask me."

The stoat, named Baskeye, grinned sympathetically and clunked four mugs on the table. "Aye, the Boss shore ain't a beast to be reckoned with. Tell me wot 'appened…yeh got me all interested now."

"Alright then. Y'see, you know old Weertooth and his ship? Well, the five of us—me, Grebbin, Smiteclaw, Weertooth and Crescent, well, we were plundering around the surrounding islands, and taking slaves and whatnot. We were goin' pretty good too—we have loads of booty, and nearly twoscore new slaves, when Weertooth sees a load of scruffy mice—!"

"They're called shrews," interrupted Crescent impatiently. "Shrews, not mice."

"Whatever," said Deathlore, with a wave of his muscular arm. "Anyways, Weertooth decides it'd be pretty clever to capture all of them shrews, and make 'em our oarslaves. 'They gotta be good at rowing,' he said. Well, we told him we didn't want to capture anyone else, so he decides to do it himself. He sails inland, and docks his boat, and he and his army go and attack the little mice—shrews. Well, to make things short, Weertooth kills the shrew leader, and all of 'em get spitting mad. They spike Weertooth with about a hundred spears and swords and such, and slaughter off his whole crew. They spotted us, but we were too far off for them to catch us."

"An' you didn't help him?" exclaimed Baskeye incredulously. "Shorely yew lot coulda taken on a load of shrews!"

"Well, we could have," admitted Crescent, "But we weren't going to get ourselves slain because of stupid Weertooth. We would have lost so many soldiers, and maybe all but one of our ships…"

"But Lord Kiltar was mad anyways, wasn't he?" prompted Baskeye, swigging his own dark ale. "Yeh told him the truth?"

"Yeah, we did," sighed Crescent, rubbing her throat again ruefully. "Yeh can't lie to that Sly One, no sir!"

"And wot's he going to do about it?" asked Baskeye keenly. "Shorely he ain't to happy about all that."

Deathlore shrugged his brawny shoulders. "I dunno. I can't imagine much he _can _do. He's got his plunder…. at least he has that much."

"Plunder won't satisfy that greedy heart of Kiltar's," said Baskeye darkly, lowering his voice considerably. "Trust me, that 'un won't be satisfied by anything except revenge."


End file.
